Once Upon A Time
by Madame-Mew-Mew
Summary: Skwisgaar's past is a funny thing.  He recalls memories of a childhood spent in beauty pageants on one drunken night leading to... smut and romance... Skwisgaar/basically everybody in later chapters
1. Princess Marlene

Once Upon A Time...

Madeira

The blonde is stretched on his bed, examining the contains of an old scrap book. He's not sure whether to smile or not at the memories it evokes. They're bitter sweet, certainly, but he treasures them, reminding him of a time when he'd thought someone had loved him unconditionally. The volume is bound in pink, trimmed with ribbon and rosettes, a silver glitter tiara decorated the front cover, with the word "Marlene" in purple glitter underneath.

Inside are blue ribbons, pink ribbons, red ribbons, ribbons of every hue, but mostly blue, pressed rose petals, ticket stubs, hundreds and perhaps thousands of bits and pieces of memorabilia from important events, but mostly there are photos, photos of a young woman with long wavy blonde hair. Sometimes she's wearing a tiara and a sash, sometimes she's in a formal gown, sometimes she's in a swim suit, sometimes she's singing and strumming an acoustic guitar, sometimes she's dressed for a holiday, or an outing, or in some other costume, but she's always lovely, and always smiling.

He smiles, the images are familiar, the book releases a soft whiff of perfume and hairspray into the air, and he remembers. He thinks of that time, so long ago now, and remembers it fondly, a faint echo of the warm glow of that era bringing warmth to his skin.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess named Marlene, she lived with her doting mother the queen, and they were very happy. They had not always been happy, her mother had not always been so affectionate and the princess had not always been a princess, but it didn't matter. They had enough food, and enough money, all because of the princess's famed beauty. They travelled far and wide entering the princess in competitions with other princesses, but Marlene always won. Besides being beautiful, she was graceful, poised, charming, and accomplished. She wasn't interested in fame, it was her mother she cared for.

All princess Marlene wished for was her mother's pride, and through her competitions it was won, but time passed, and things changed. Princess Marlene's voice deepened, her features sharpened, she grew tall, and her shoulders grew broad, she was still beautiful, but her mother lost interest in her the moment she was no longer fit for the beauty pageants, and the princess grew bitter.

Fourteen years prior:

The blonde examined herself in the mirror, her skin was airbrushed with a perfect faux-glow, her hair piled on her head with soft tendrils framing her face, her nails manicured, her lips glossy, soft eye shadow accenting her bright blue eyes, mascara, blush. She wore a strapless pink gown, its full floor length skirt made of layers and layers of shimmering organza in varying shades of pink. She smiles to herself, adjusting the elaborate faux-diamond necklace at her throat, and giving herself a little curtsey.

It was her first pageant and her stomach tied itself in knots despite the months of training, but she would make her moder (mother) proud. The girl straightened her back, pushing up the inserts in her bra that gave the illusion of proper breasts. She smiled, high heels clickity clacking as she walked towards the wings, waiting for the music to swell, her cue to step out on stage. She'd won a trophy there, money to keep the lights on, and a gift certificate to a boutique but mostly she had won the look in her mother's eyes. She had never seen that look directed at her before, it was pride, it was pleasure at seeing her and she beamed.

That was what created her, fixed her in place. The guitarist remembers, remembers how it started, it had been innocent curiosity, trying on one of his mother's old gowns. Someone had told him he ought to have been a girl, and he was... just testing the theory. He'd never tried one on before, and if it hadn't been for his mother's arrival, he probably wouldn't have done it again, but she had arrived home, and he'd been cowering, expecting blows, or at least a long berating. She'd seemed about to deliver one, when she paused, something changing, as if she'd had an idea.

"Turn around," was all she'd said, and his young self, still terrified of the maternal authority she presented, did. She smiled, and he, although puzzled, basked in her approval for the first time in his life.

That had began it, he'd agreed, as he'd always agreed, in the hope that she might find it in herself to love him. He'd not gotten quite old enough to stop hoping yet, and then, then for the first time she had shown him a sign of fondness. He'd gone through the training, learnt every one of her tricks He'd waxed his legs, plucked his brows, and let her experiment with hairstyles ranging from sleek up dos, to masses of romantic curls. He'd learnt to play old folk ballads on acoustic guitar and sing in a sweet alto voice that had left the judges in tears, and it had worked. He, or was it she, because she was a creation, a character he put on, had won. Marlene won pageant after pageant, innumerable tiaras collecting in his metal poster-ed teenage boy's room.

Sure, the activities were not his first choice, shopping, manicurist's appointments, singing lessons, and dance classes, but she spent time with him, talked to him, acted like a mother (albeit the mother of a teenage girl rather than a teenage boy) for the first time in his life. After years of being ignored, it was impossible to say no, and the money made things so much easier. There were no money worries when he could bring home thousands in prize money each week.

But, of course, he'd gotten older, and with time he was less and less convincing as a girl. His shoulders broadened, his voice deepened so he could no longer sing in that sweet alto tone, his jaw hardened, and although he remained lean muscles grew. By the time he was seventeen there was no chance of passing, and although he was already a virtuoso on the guitar, the light of pride in his mother's eyes had gone out.

Now he sits, flipping through the scrap book, remembering each costume, each pageant, each photo shoot, remembering his mother's encouragement and aid. Before the pageants he didn't hate her, having resigned himself to being ignored, it was the after that had changed things. She'd betrayed him, shown him love and snatched it away, and that was why he hated her.

He sighs, pushes his hair behind an ear. He still has every sash, every tiara, every outfit though. He still has the scrap books she'd made, the video tapes. Perhaps that betrayal is what drives him, the fear that failure means losing everyone who cares about him. Perhaps the betrayal is why he finds love, especially love proclaimed now that he's famous, so suspect. Perhaps that betrayal is what prevents him from telling Toki how he feels, or perhaps he knows that if he let anyone in, especially if he let Toki in, he'd have to tell them the story, and to tell the story would to be vulnerable in the way he'd promised himself he'd never be again.

Sometimes he wonders why his mother doesn't give the story to the press, there's no proof, but considering the power of his name there are plenty of news venues that'd take her word for it. She could make quite a bit of money off it. In his heart he knows why she keeps it to herself, not out of love for him, but out of love for Marlene, out of the desire to keep her pride in the daughter that never existed alive. He hates her for that too, though he doesn't even admit knowing her reasoning to himself. It makes it worse, because then it's not even about success, he didn't fail her then, or at least he didn't fail her in any way he could help. She'd wanted a daughter to live through, and he couldn't play that part forever.

Part of him though, separate from the parts that hate his mother and miss his mother, separate from the part of him that's horrified by how utterly not brutal it is to wear crinolines, is really pretty proud of it. It's not pride in passing for a woman exactly, it's more pride in having competed and conquered, without even meeting the requirements to enter. It felt a bit like winning the olympic swimming competition without getting into the pool simply because he showed up, what the criteria were didn't matter after his appearance because he was just that cool. Of course, the judges had thought he was a girl, but that didn't particularly matter to his mind.

He's a vain creature even if he doesn't admit it, it's not that he wants to be a woman, god knows that's the last thing he wants, but he enjoys reminding himself he's breathtakingly gorgeous either way. He's a stunning man, and he looks just as stunning in a dress. It pleases him to know that while other men might look silly in a corset and high heels, it just gives him a strange gender bending allure. He's good with makeup too, and sometimes when he's alone, or with a groupie who will keep their mouth shut, he'll pretty himself up simply because it suits his ego. He likes it better with a groupie, the gaping awe when he first appears, resplendent in his peacock's trappings, and the inevitable enthusiastic response please him. As much as he enjoys the image of himself in the mirror, part of him is simply built for an audience, exhibitionism ingrained in his nature.

Despite it all, despite how it might seem, the entire thing doesn't trouble him much, it's just one more failure of his mother's, and his nature is not prone to angst or quiet introspection.

Perhaps it's the pageants that left him addicted to being desired, regardless of whether it's true or not, he does it constantly. He's never off, not even with his band mates, especially not with a certain rhythm guitarist.

He smiles slightly, putting the album away. He's fairly drunk, he usually is when he pulls out the albums, but tonight's different, there's an idea forming in the back of his mind, a wicked little idea that could get him into a lot of trouble.

He's been with Charles and Nate before, not to mention Pickles, all were good lays. He's well aware that if people knew his that part of his history, and his preferences, people would try to connect the two. He doesn't, bisexuality came before dresses, but that doesn't matter, he doesn't think in terms of bi or gay or whatever, his sexuality, ravenous and feral, simply is. He knows Toki wants him, but something prevents him. He's never dressed up for any of the other men, part of him knowing that the wrong move would change the rough brutal "just between us dudes" sex into something well... gay, but tonight, tonight might be the sort of night it'd work.

He knew well enough he wasn't the brightest bulb, but he was quite knowledgeable about certain things, one of which, of course, was desire.


	2. Glitter On The Floor

His hips swing as he puts on music and goes to the closet to get dressed. Skwisgaar doesn't dress up in the ways you might think, on him a skirt is a "fuck you" to the world. There's a sort of devil-may-care rakishness in the way he wears his fishnets.

On him a dress implies no helplessness, no sense of delicacy, there's no feminine passiveness, on him a dress is just one more symbol of his unrepentant joyous carnality, of the ecstatic joy he finds in sex. He's always active, top or bottom. Although he may be the object of lust, he is never an object, wanting them back, taking delight in taking part in the act.

His outfit, like all his outfits, reflects him. He wears a pale blue satin corset, trimmed in swaths black lace and dripping with jet beads, it nips in his already slim waist, making giving him almost an hour glass figure, with black satin underwear that can barely contain his cock, thong back with a pale blue silk bow at the top. He's got some old eighties glam metal on, and he shakes his hips in time to the sultry beat, flicking his hair, movements sinful, looking for all the world like a stripper as he gets dressed. He was a fluid grace about him, something almost feline, like a big cat stalking his prey. He rolls up back seam fishnet stockings, clipping them to the corset's garters, and slips his feet into six inch black patent leather heels.

Next of course, is makeup, rich crimson lip color, opaque, but shiny as wet look vinyl, dramatic black eye shadow, and black cream liner, adding to the feline effect, all he needs then is a hint of mascara and a brush of shimmering blush over his cheek bones and his face is done. He contemplates his hair for a moment, before twisting it up, the silver and jet comb holding his platinum mane in place glinting softly as if hinting to anyone who saw him to remove the comb and let the glossy white blonde waves tumble down around him in their unbound glory, much like the demure outfit that subtly hints at the delights beneath, or even a brightly wrapped holiday gift, his body begs to be unwrapped.

He looks as if he'd been made for for passion, satiny skin designed to be caressed, full red painted lips meant for kisses, long legs for wrapping around a waist or for the leverage to make a bottom scream, pert ass, slim hips, tiny waist, and that languid feline blue gaze, all of it contributing to an over all appearance that would make you forget how to speak, forget how to breathe, forget everything but the exquisite avatar of sensuality standing before you.

He walks on those sky high heels like he has every inch of ground under his personal employ, and they just love to be stepped on, his hips wiggle, posture perfect all lithe elegance. He examines himself in the mirror, watching the way he moves, smiling to himself. He knew perfectly well that no one who saw him had even a remote chance of escaping without falling prey to his many charms.

He smirks, and sashays from the room to find his first target. He considers, there's Charlie, or Nate, or Pickles or even Toki, though Toki will be the hardest, so he might save him for last on his sexual rampage. He does intend it to be a rampage. He knows that the other guys'd do him no questions asked dressed up like this. After all, he's a hot blonde with legs that don't end and an ass that won't quit, besides, he's Skwisgaar Skwigelf, on him lingerie is fucking brutal. He grins, figuring he'll just do whoever he runs into first, unless it's Murderface, not that Murderface would offer anyway.

He walks down the hall, the notes of the music echoing after him, strutting down the hall, waiting for someone to appear.

When movement catches his eye, he catches sight of his first quarry, but it can't be. The man looks to be in his early twenties, long bleach blonde hair layered on top and teased, glossy pink lips, and green glitter spread over eye lids, a hot pink heart painted on his cheek. He wears impossibly tight black leather pants, and a shredded hot pink zebra print tank top showing off flat toned stomach, high heeled boots, long legs, familiar swirling tattoos trailing down his arms, too much jewelry, rings on every finger all of it recalling... someone. That face though, that's what shocks him, those cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, even those deep green eyes, all of it so familiar.

"Charlies?" says the Swede, shocked.

"Yeah, I woke up like this... back in the eighties..." says the younger version of the CFO, raising an eyebrow and flipping back his hair to show off ears pierced all the way up the side. Skwisgaar doesn't question it. This is Mordhaus after all, and even if it weren't, it wasn't as if the troll incident had taught them anything about using ancient spells as lyrics.

"Yous was quites de slutties rockers groupies," purrs the blonde, eyeing the other man's lean frame.

"Yeah," says Charlie lighting up a cigarette and inhaling, "you planning to be in a rocky horror cast?" he adds, adolescent sarcasm apparently reappearing as well.

The guitarist glares, toying with a tendril of escaped hair.

"Dats reallies nots anys of yous busy-ness buts no, Is havings yous know I's dresseds ups for tos goings tos haves de sex withs... wells Is nots ams sures yets," he says, as Charlie considers him. He's never seen Skwisgaar like this before, and he likes it, the already desirable guitarist all primped and prettied until just looking at him already had him half hard. They look to be about the same age, and there's a gleam of something dangerous in the glam rocker's green eyes.

Charles smirks, pushing the Swede lightly back onto the desk.

"How bout me?" he suggests, nails sliding along the other man's pale thigh, drawing a soft moan from the guitarist.

"Ja, you'lls does."

A perfectly manicured hand reaches behind the blonde's head, pulling the comb from his hair, letting it tumble down around him in a wave of thick platinum silk, long fingers glimmering with rings fisting in the fair strands.

"What did you just say, bitch?" purrs Charlie, using his grip on his hair to force him to look him in the eye.

"Is saids you'lls does," repeats the guitarist, a defiant smirk forming on his lips. He'd been craving this, needing to be used like a whore, needing rough treatment and pain bringing the pleasure into sharp contrast.

"Lube," orders the glam rocker, his tone as chilly and clinical as a surgeon's, and for a moment it's obvious how this slutty little glam rocker could become the brutal CFO.

Skwisgaar fumbles but gets the lube from the desk, handing it to Charles, hips arching upwards.

"You need it bad, don't you, slut?" purrs Charles, long nailed finger tips pressing the other's chin lightly up, other hand wandering to squeeze the blatant bulge in the Swede's panties.

Skwisgaar whimpers, hips rocking up. "Ja, damns it Charlies,," he cries, "Is needs you."

Charlie shifts the back of the thong out of the way, spreading the other man's legs. He looks down at the Swede wickedly.

The guitarist gives him a cocky smirk back, as if to ask 'really think you can handle me?' and Charlie just smirks more, shaking his head condescendingly.

"You don't have a fucking clue, do you blondie?" he purrs, giving Skwisgaar's hair a yank, "you've got no idea just how hard I plan to use you, bitch, I'm going to make you scream, got it?"

Skwisgaar growls, twisting in the other man's grip, fighting to regain control, writhing against the other. Finally Charles forces the Swede's legs apart with a knee and slips a slicked finger into him, curving it to find his spot. The glam rocker moans, he likes it when they fought back, and the sight of the exquisite Swede, breathing shallow, whimpering with need even as he fought to get on top, red lacquered lips parting desperately, as blue eyes flutter open, widening at the sudden bolt of pleasure, is driving him mad. Charles wants to destroy him, wants him a sobbing wreck by the end of it.

The taller man groans, and Charles pulls him up for a desperate kiss, teeth and tongue, working over that sinfully full lower lip until the CFO knows he'll have a bruise.

"Charlies," he cries, and Charles adds another finger.

"That's right, bitch, scream for me," he murmurs; breath hot on the Swede's ear, looking down at him something primal burning in his eyes, as he adds a third finger less than gently, knowing the guitarist likes it rough.

Skwisgaar screams, obeying without thought as those wonderful fingers move violently in him, driving him to writhe desperately, almost crying he needs it so much now.

"Charlies, please, Is needings more," he sobs, the glam rocker has him at his breaking point, lithe body twisting, trying to get even a hint more of the other man inside him, craving his touch, "puts yous cock ins me, please."

Charles loves seeing the cocky guitarist like this, broken beneath him, begging to be fucked. Finally, he can't resist anymore, and he pulls his fingers out, cock sliding in, moaning at the velvety heat surrounding him. He doesn't savor the sensation for long though, slamming in to the hilt, so forceful he makes the desk shudder.

The Swede gasps, arches his back, claws at the manager. He's babbling in Swedish, incoherent, unable to do anything but take it.

The glam rocker arches, animal, feral with pleasure, smacking his ass, yanking on long blonde hair.

"Tell me what you are?" he demands, looking straight into lust hazed blue eyes.

"I's a sluts, a dirty whores, and Is belongings tos you, ams wantings justs to bes fuckeds alls de times," he cries breathlessly, "Is does whatevers yous wantings, justs gods please don'ts stops."

Charles wouldn't have stopped at that point if the Swede had been begging him too, he just felt too utterly perfect, tight ass clenching around him, slim body bucking up, returning his thrusts. Bleached hair tickled the guitarist as Charles moved, throwing his head back, wild almost animal as he pinned the other man's wrists, using him ruthlessly.

Skwisgaar moans, screams, tearing up now. "Fucks me," he howls, "is sos close, please," and Charles fucks him, one hand moving to stroke his cock, matching his thrusts, drawing more noises from the deliciously vocal Swede.

The world falls away, Skwisgaar's about to lose it, past any remaining self control, sobbing in ecstasy. Looking up at this young version of Charles, with his bleached mane and glitter makeup it's almost too good to be real, everything's slipping away into the rush of pleasure building in him, The room, the firm wood of the desk under him, the world, none of it exists, he and the glam rock god above him are the sole inhabitants of his reality at the moment, it's perfect, time is speeding up and slowing down, waiting for that single exquisite peak, like the peak of one of his guitar solos

And then it comes, and everything is white hot and perfect, and he's screaming without hearing himself scream, bucking off the desk, nails leaving scars on the varnished wood as he curses incoherently in his native tongue.

Charles can't hold back, not with that tight, perfect ass clenching around him, so he comes too, grabbing the guitarist's hips and fucking him through his own climax, crying out his name, using him until he can't anymore, collapsing atop him, panting and content. The Swede falls back too, looking up, lips parted, gloriously dazed.

"Das was increibles, you's incredsible," he purrs when he finally catches his breath. Charles smirks, running his fingers through the other man's silky mane.

"Damn right I am."

"Yous pretties likes dis," adds Skwisgaar, running his fingers over the other's cheek.

Charles chuckles. "You're not so bad yourself, blondie," he responds, pulling out, and enjoying the view for a moment, mussed hair, smeared makeup, cum spattered on pale skin.


	3. Hello Nurse

Of course, being Skwisgaar, Skwisgaar isn't satisfied long. He needs more, and he knows just where he's going to get it too. His makeup needs repairs, and he's aching to get out of the corset.

He smirks at his reflection, the bruises, the bite marks, the blood trickling down from a cut lip. He flips his hair back from his face, and cleans himself up, fixing his makeup, wiping semen from his thighs.

He knows just what to wear for the next round, knows just how crazy it'll make his intended victim. The nurse's outfit, shiny black pvc with the little cross emblem, the little hat pinned carefully onto his hair, stockings and another pair of heels. He takes up the oversized toy syringe, and smirks.

"Times fors de prostates exams," he purrs at himself, grinning. The image is surreal, beautiful, and deliciously wicked. A moment later something comes to him, and he drops the syringe, picking up a guitar instead, strapping it low on his hips. He examines himself again the guitar only making the entire thing sexier and he begins to play. Long fingers fly over the frets, something exotic, a fast moving whirling dervish melody. He closes his eyes, arching his back to the sound of the notes, hypnotic. It feels so right, the music vibrating through him, something almost mystic in the notes as they pour from the instrument, aided by his knowing fingers. He uses the tremolo, making the notes shudder and vibrate, a vast expansive sound. He's playing a song about freedom, closing his eyes and swaying his hips. He flicks his hair, getting lost in the sound of the music.

It's not metal, but it's beautiful. The melody belongs to surf guitar, and his fingers move at blinding speed. He's a god right now, the sound filling the room, calling out, seductive, sultry, with a tempting under current of danger. It cries out, it soars as he flips his hair. He's a rock god, shimmying his slim hips, seducing the air in his short skirted little outfit.

Perhaps he's unconsciously calling his next lover, but it doesn't matter, as he moves to the middle eastern tones.

He'd learnt it years ago. He was sixteen, figuring out the chords to Dick Dale, obsessed with the man's stunning skill. He'd wanted that, to be like that. He remembers feeling the California sun in the melodies even in the bitter cold of Swedish winter. He remembers practicing backstage at pageants on his acoustic, trying as hard as he could not to break a manicured nail as he hit the frets perfectly. He remembers the other contestants, the real girls looking at him as they quadruple checked their mascara, remembers envy in their eyes. Marlene had been the queen supreme, known throughout Sweden.

If she entered a pageant the other contestants knew to kiss any hopes of first place goodbye, even so other girls seemed to flock to her, drawn perhaps by some subconscious knowledge of her actual sex. There were more than a few girls who ended up quite confused over their sexuality thanks to Miss Marlene.

He'd gotten his first kiss back stage at an international pageant, put his hand on his first breast. It was back stage he'd learnt how to make a girl scream with his fingers, with his tongue. No reciprocation, of course, but somehow he'd liked it anyway. They'd told him he was beautiful, told him they'd never felt like that about a girl before, told him secrets, fallen in love with... her, not him, but it didn't matter as long as love gleamed in their eyes.

The notes free him though, he doesn't have to have a past if he doesn't want to, lost in the music, not the memory.

He plays, almost to the final note when his door opens.

"Heya, dood what are you-" the redhead drops his bottle in surprise, and Skwisgaar grins, he too looks like he did in the eighties. The blonde doesn't know what's going on, but he likes it, in any case the redhead seems too drunk to be aware of his teased mane and the eyeliner smudged around his green eyes, "what the hell are ya wearin' blahndie?"

"Yous haves eyes," he says, unstrapping the guitar, and walking over.

"Yeh," says the redhead, "yeh, I do." He smirks, the blonde looks delicious like this, and he can't resist moving closer.

"Yous likes?" purrs the blonde, looking the redhead over.

"Yeh, fuck," he says, looking up at him, "how about you bend yerself over so I can get a better view of that ass."

The Swede smirked, and did, palms to the wall, stretching, back arched.

"Wanna play dahcter, huh?" purrs the redhead sidling up behind him and putting a hand on the small of his back.

"Ja," breathes the blonde, spreading his legs a bit, inviting.

"Always knew you were a slut, but hell," he says, shaking his head, running his hand's down the other's sides, the small waist, his hips, the firm rounded ass contrasting beautifully with jutting hip bones, and perfectly flat stomach.

"Yous almosts as bads," he says, smirking, giving Pickles a little look.

"You gaht a damn nice bahdy, blahndie," murmurs the drummer, ghosting his lips over the nape of the other man's neck, leaving the blonde shuddering slightly.

"What's yous wantings to does withs it?" he purrs wickedly, causing Pickles to grin lazily.

He gives the blonde's cock a squeeze, reaching up under the dress.

"I think you know what I wahnna do with it," murmurs the drummer, grabbing the blonde by his hair, twisting the platinum mane around his hand and giving it a yank, using the guitarist's hair as a leash, taking him to the bed.

The Swede winces, but takes it allowing the smaller man to lead him where he likes.

"Get on all fours, dood," he says, giving the guitarist's ass a smack with the hair brush he'd left on his bed side table. The blonde whimpers, and arches his hips.

"Like that, blahndie?" purrs Pickles, smirking,

"Ja," murmurs the Swede, leaning his body forward, raising his ass in the air. The drummer lays down a flurry of blows, grinning as the other man's ass flushes prettily under his ministrations. The blonde yelps, whimpering under the attack, clutching at the bedsheets, cock dripping onto the sheets.

"Fuckin' slut," purrs Pickles, rubbing the other man's sore back side with a cool palm. He leans in close, grabbing the blonde's hair again, looking him straight in the eye.

"You wahnt more, bitch?" he murmurs, and Skwisgaar can smell vodka and danger on his breath, and the blonde grins.

"Fucks ja," he purrs, eyes heavy lidded, bucking his hips back.

Pickles simply unzips his jeans, pulling his cock out, pressing the tip to the blonde's lips.

"Suck," and he does plush lips parting, tongue trailing up the underside as he moans. He's wanton, big blue eyes turned up to gaze at the redhead, oh so needy. He takes it in his mouth, sucking, licking, teasing, and eventually swallowing the other man's cock. The Swede really can give a blow job, practiced and deliciously enthusiastic. Those full soft lips could make a man crazy. Pickles fucks his throat, holding him by the hair and taking what he wants, claiming that hot, wet, silken perfection, loving the sight of the blonde's eyes tearing as he tries not to choke. Eventually Pickles can't take it anymore, not wanting to come just yet, knowing those big blue eyes and perfect mouth would do it in about five seconds if he kept going. So, he pulls back, looking down at him with a languid smile.

"Looks like someone beat ya up earlier, just can't get enough, can ya?" murmurs Pickles, noticing the bruise on the blonde's lip.

"Justs Charlies littles while ago," he purrs, rocking his hips up. The redhead raises a brow.

"That mean I can skip prep?" he asks, holding up a bottle of lube and waggling it in front of the blonde's nose.

He considers for a moment before nodding. "Goes aheads," he murmurs, looking at him languidly, spreading his legs, skirt framing his hips just right.

The redhead grins, one of his long fingered hands cupping the blonde's tight ass, giving it a squeeze, appreciating just how goddamn perfect he really is. A moment later he's drizzling a bit of lube over his cock and the Swede's hole and then he's entering him, moaning in shocked pleasure at the exquisite sensation of the blonde's unprepped ass. Skwisgaar cries out, he's tight and it hurts, but god it hurts so right, hurts so right that when the redhead starts to move his hips, pressing painted nails into the blonde's flanks all he can do is moan and take it. Normally he'd resist, or at least make a show of resisting, but he needs it too much now. He can't hide what he is, what he needs.

He sobs in ecstasies of pleasure. Pickles loves it, loves watching the normally cocky blonde whimpering beneath him, bucking his hips back trying to get more. His rhythm for the moment is slow, deep thrusts, teasing.

"Ya need more?" he purrs, and the Swede whimpers, desperately trying to get it.

"Ja," he says, voice low, roughened by need.

"If ya wahnt more, yer gahnna have ta beg fer it," he says continuing to move at the same maddening pace.

The Swede sobs. "I's begs den, please Pickle, hurries ups, I's goings to goes crazy ifs yous nots fuckings properlies," he cries, clutching at the sheets, and the redhead grabs his hips and fucks him, fucks him like he's been aching to.

He would close his eyes, but the sight of that prefect body in that sexy little uniform, the nurse's cap falling off, long legs spread. The blonde's crying out, bucking back towards every thrust, needy, so utterly needy. The redhead loves it, gives it to him harder, faster, showing the cocky lead guitarist who's boss, who (for now at least) owns him body and soul. Polished nails dig into pale skin, harder, hard enough to break it, blood blossoms, and the blonde's back arches. He yowls in pleasure-pain, head flopping forward, unable to support himself properly with pleasure burning through him with such intensity.

The world is black and gold, everything is blooming, and something exquisite glimmers in the distance, and they ache for it, bodies slamming together trying to reach that shimmering distance. Moans, cries, there is a beautiful, terrible intensity to it.

Pickles moves faster, the sight spurring him on. He wants to drive the guitarist insane, leave him a lustful puddle on the bed, wants to mark his fucking territory. Sure he knows the guitarist is in love with Toki, he's seen the way they look at each other, but for now, for the moment the Swede is his and he will do as he pleases.

He growls, pulling the blonde up against him, and unzips the dress, wanting to feel the velvet perfection of his skin against his own as he brutalizes him, wants to feel that lean perfect body. Skwisgaar's shaking, cock nearly purple, aching he's so hard.

"Pickle," he sobs, skin gleaming with sweat, head tilted back, letting the drummer do as he pleases with him. Pickles can't resist him, never could, he starts to move furiously, fast uneven strokes, knowing he can't hold back much longer, but determined to make the blonde come first, wanting to see him twitch, and spasm, and spill onto the black satin sheets.

He pounds him, slamming into him as if he intends to go through him, as if he wants to fuck him through the bed, and the blonde loves it. He screams, not caring if all of Mordhaus hears him, it's glorious anguish. The beautiful pain of need courses through him.

"Fucks me, Pickle," he whimpers, broken, so beautiful. His voice sends silvery shudders up the other man's spine and drives him, drives him towards more, harder, faster. He wants to push him past screaming, past conscious thought, lord knows he's not thinking himself right then. Everything out the window for instinct, bodies moving together, eyeliner smearing, hands caressing, a lock of wild redhair clinging to a pale cheek, sex, and sweat, and glory. The drummer pants, breathless. This is more strenuous even then the most difficult drum line, but the reward, god it's worth it.

Orgasm is rising, approaching, that glimmer of something in the distance is getting closer, getting bigger, and they can feel the heat coming off it, feel it closing in. It may destroy everything, but it will be glorious, exquisite, a moment beyond time. It rises, sensation rising, swelling like music, threatening overload, threatening to push them beyond lines they didn't know existed, bigger, higher, more, and more, and more, bodies moving with ferocious desperation and then, then it comes. Everything explodes, they're both screaming, nails bite into skin. Pickles thrusts into him viciously, slamming into him as hard as he knows how, using the quivering Swede like a doll. Skwisgaar is shaking so hard he fears he'll come apart, senses on overload, heart pounding in his chest.

Finally after an instant of eternity, it dies down, and for a few moments the world is gone, floating in fine particles glimmering against black but they're there, clutching each other and shuddering with the force of it. It's beautiful though, they collapse panting on the bed, limbs tangled together, makeup smeared, and skin damp with sweat as they slowly remember how to breathe, who they are, where they are.

"Gahd damn, Skwisgaar, yer... damn," says the redhead, smiling his crooked smile.

"Yous is veries goods at makings de sex toos," purrs the blonde, snuggling up against him, thinking he might need a catnap or so before continuing.


	4. In The Panther's Lair

Next it's Nate's turn. Skwisgaar knows how to dress up for him too, the sheer black chiffon baby doll trimmed in pink ribbon, the black and silver stripper heels with the 8 inch stiletto heel and big platform, miniscule black satin thong, sheer black stockings, the garter belt. He applies pink gloss, soft shimmering shadow, teases up his hair and puts on too much eye makeup. He wears diamonds at his throat, on his fingers, on his wrist, and they suit him. He looks delectable like this, an exquisitely expensive whore, it's... brutal.

He knows where just where to find him, and so he goes off, right into the tigers den, knowing what'll happen, and smirking all the way there.

Nathan's stretched out on his bed wearing nothing but his jeans. He really does look like a panther, those intense green eyes, his silken jet black mane spilling over his muscular shoulders, as he reads a book on medieval torture devices.

The blonde says his name, and the raven haired man looks up. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't hesitate, he doesn't pause. He just gets up and stalks over. The Swede can't fathom how it happens, but next thing he knows he's on his back on the bed, pinned by the bigger man.

Nathan grins, a feral disturbingly predatory grin.

"Look what we got here," purrs the vocalist, unknotting the bow holding the baby doll shut with startling delicacy before literally ripping the panties in half, and tossing the torn material away like wrapping paper at christmas.

Nate's eyes travel over the other man's now nearly naked form, the only things left the garter belt, heels and stockings. He likes those, he'll leave them on, they make the guitarist's long legs look even more gorgeous than usual. He knows what he needs, the heavy manacles resting in the chest beneath his bed, the chains. He wants the blonde helpless, wants him chained up like a virgin (or in the case of the guitarist utterly non-virgin) sacrifice to the god of metal.

"Stay," orders Nate, as he gets the bindings, tightening the leather cuffs firmly around the Swede's wrists, chaining him to the bed posts. The chains are long, giving him some slack for movement, but he won't be getting away, and he won't be fighting back. The Swede looks up at him from heavily lined eyes, lips parting slightly. Nate gazes back, just watching, it's a classic intimidation tactic, and it'd work if the Swede wasn't looking up with that delicious little wicked smirk.

"Yous likings whats you see, Natans?" purrs that blonde, looking up at him, chains clanking, and all Nathan can think about is wiping that "I know what you want" smirk off his face.

Nathan grabs him by the hair. "Did I tell you you could fucking talk, slut?" he growls, slapping him across the face. He's not gentle, he's never gentle. Skwisgaar shuts his mouth, watching just a touch frightened, the fear turns him on though, a dribble of pre-cum leaking from his cock.

"You want somethin' don't you?" he purrs, giving the other man's ass a harsh squeeze.

"Ja, Is ams wantings sometings, yous goings to gives it tos me, Nat'ans?" he purrs, eyes half shutting, flirtatious.

"Don't pull that shit with me," is all the vocalist growls, "I'm going to do whatever the fuck I like with you."

Skwisgaar swallows, but nods. "Ja, Nat'ans," he says softly, hanging his head.

"That's better," said Nate, giving his ass a hard smack with his looped belt, drawing a shocked yelp from the blonde.

This isn't teasing pain, this isn't playing. Nathan grins tracing the welt with a black nailed finger, picking up some lube.

He lubes up thick fingers, sticking two inside the Swede, stretching him roughly, drawing mewls and sobs from the Swede.

Nate growls like an animal, slamming the digits in and out, wanting it to hurt. He wants to break him, dominate him.

Skwisgaar sobs, bucks his hips, trying to get more, but Nathan holds the slender blonde still with one big hand.

"Hold still, bitch," Nate murmurs, adding a third digit, stretching him for what comes next.

It feels perfect, those big fingers stretching him wide, and he moans softly. It's scary how good the big man is, but he's not stretching him out much. Finally he just slips a plug into the blonde and kisses him with a violent hunger. He bites his lip, tongue forcing the other man's lips to part, invading the velvet heat of his mouth, and the Swede moans, shuddering in his bonds.

"Please Nat'ans," says the blonde, drunk on pleasure, voice soft. He's not cocky now, which is just how Nathan likes it.

Nate gives the other man's hair a yank, toying with the plug before drawing it out. He slams in, all vestige of control gone, he bites, he scratches, and he thrusts. Skwisgaar cries out once and then falls back, limp, legs spread, just a pretty toy to be used for the other man's pleasure.

Nathan slams into him, hitting his spot again and again, drawing cries from the Swede beneath him. He bites down on his shoulder, only stopping when the metallic taste of blood reaches his tongue, even so it spurs him on. He's ferocious, using the other man with a force that suggests an intention to break him in half. Heat threatens to consume the guitarist, and he can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but let himself be taken and sob for more.

"You are a pathetic little whore, a worthless pathetic little whore," roars Nathan, slapping him across the face again.

"Ja," cries the Swede, the slap burns and he's flushed from effort and the other man's words, "Is nots evens deservings yous cock ins me"

Nate grabs his hips and his hair, bringing their faces close. "That's right, bitch," he purrs, fucking him even harder. Skwisgaar shakes, bites down on his lower lip and screams, screams till his voice is hoarse and his throat hurts, but he doesn't care, it feels too perfect. Everything but his essence burnt away by the blinding heat of pleasure and pain, washed away in a mythic flood of sensation, leaving his core and nothing else. He writhes, animal and alive.

Nathan's hips move with unstoppable force, slamming in and withdrawing till only the tip remains. The bed creaks in protest, but that's never stopped him before, then again he's never done this to the guitarist before, but something in that little outfit, in the other man's attitude brought out the beast in him, and it will not be caged. He is ruthless, some part of him knows the Swede will have trouble walking after he's done, but he couldn't care less.

Teeth sink into white flesh, and bruises bloom red under the skin. Backs arch, and muscles tense, the world seems to be going in slow motion. The blonde can feel everything, the pounding of his own heart, the hot danger scented breath of the other man against his skin, the nails digging into his skin, guaranteed to leave yet more bruises on him, every inch of the other man's massive cock sliding in and out of him, winding him tighter, driving him towards the edge of madness.

He knows he's not going to last long. Nathan is going to explode him, and god he wants it. Being fucked by this beautiful monster of a man is too perfect, too exquisitely brutal for words. He screams again, the sound echoing against the stones, calling out the other man's name. Sex is war for the moment, as bodies clash together. Nathan makes low guttural animal sounds, scratching down the other man's back, seeming bent on tearing him to shreds, and Skwisgaar loves it, cries tears of bliss.

Nathan doesn't intend to slow down, doesn't intend to stop, even if he wanted to the animal in him wouldn't allow him, not with the blonde under him writhing in such beautiful desperation. He loves him like this, loves taking away the other man's self control, taking away his capacity to do anything but be fucked for a moment, loves seeing him utterly, perfectly helpless under him.

This is pleasure beyond pleasure, his body hums like a guitar string, Nathan's every move reverberating through him. His entire body is electrified, sensitive to the slightest touch and he can't take much more. He's going to lose it, unable to hold back anymore, the last vestige of his self control strained to its tearing point.

"Nat'ans, I's goings to comes!" he sobs, bucking his slim hips, "please Na'tans," he manages before slipping into Swedish, babbling nonsense in a breathy whimper.

Nathan goes faster if that's possible, one big hand wrapping around the Swede's cock, slamming into him at blinding speed. Pleasure swells, every muscle in his body tenses, shuddering as if he'll break apart and it's too much, blue eyes shut and he screams, losing himself to Nathan, spilling between them and shaking violently, muscles clenching on the raven haired man's cock. Nathan follows, the sight of the blonde too much and he comes, roaring his primal pleasure roar, and thrusting in a few final times before he collapses a panting, smirking, sweaty wreck atop the other.

The Swede pants, shaking for a few moments more before seeming to come back to himself.

"Fuckings hells," he gasps.

"Yeah," murmurs Nate, grinning.


	5. Love and Bruises

Skwisgaar stands at Toki's door, bruised, and bloody, makeup off, in his usual clothes. He's here for more than sex, so he figures he'll start out looking like his usual self, albeit a somewhat beaten version of his usual self.

He steels himself, getting ready to tell Toki how he feels, he hasn't told anyone how he feels about anything since he can remember. Finally, he takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door.

"Comings in," calls Toki's voice, and he enters, at the sight of him the young Norwegian gasps.

"Whats happens tos yous, Skwisgaar?" asks Toki brows knitting, reaching up to touch the blonde's face.

The Swede flinches, a blush starting on his cheeks.

"Uh, it ams long stories," he says, nervously touching his bloody lip, "cans Is comes in?"

"Yous acting real funnys," Toki responds, giving him an odd look, "buts okay."

"Wells," says Skwisgaar, glancing nervously at the brunette, "I's kinds ofs havings a somethings to ams tellings you?"

"Is you reallys okay, yous nots actings likes usual."

"Ja... wells I's likings yous, Toki."

"Is knows dat, Is nots stupids, yous cans pretends whatevers yous likes, but easys to tells," says the Norwegian with a smile.

"Nos, I means... I's likings you ins uh, mores den friends ways?"

The Norwegian's eyes widen.

"Sos yous wantings tos have de sex wits me?"

"Yes, nos, maybes? Dildos... Is, ja, I wants tos havings de sex times withs you, buts Is wantings more den dat, Is loves you, Toki," Skwisgaar says, looking up at the other miserably.

Toki sits beside him, a big tanned hand settling on the taller man's knee cap. The rhythm guitarist's brow knits, and he looks earnestly at the other.

"Does you means dat, Skwisgaar, cause if dis is somes kinda jokes Is goings to bes reallies havings angries feelings," he said, looking at the other as firmly as he could manage.

The blonde blinked, and shook his head, gazing at his boots.

"Nej, littles Toki," he says softly, "I's meanings it."

"Sos yous wantings to be mys goilfriends ladys?" Toki says, bouncing up and down excitedly on the bed.

The Swede cracks a smile, "Boysfriends man, Toki, Is nots a lady," he says, trying to hide his pleasure and amusement and sound annoyed.

"Ja, whatsevers," says Toki, waving his hand dissuasively.

'Sos... I guess yous likings me toos?"

"Ja," says Toki simply, scooting close enough he was practically in the blonde's lap, "I's lovings you toos," he adds, leaning in to kiss him softly on the mouth. The gesture is so sudden and unexpected that the Swede stiffens in surprise for a moment before he returns the gesture, fingers threading through soft chestnut hair as he kisses back.

The kiss is a little clumsy, both shy at this first touch with its million implications. The blonde flicks his tongue over Toki's lower lip. Toki kisses back, catching Skwisgaar's lower lip between his teeth, tugging ever so lightly, and the ache from the bruise feels perfect.

It's not long before their gentle explorations become purposeful, heat and need flickering through them,. Skwisgaar pulls Toki closer, pulling him into his lap facing him. He swears to god he's going to melt, the soft warmth of those lips against his. He's tugging helplessly at the brunette's shirt, trying to get it off without having to break the kiss, as denim clad hips rock together. Toki whimpers, and Skwisgaar swears to god, one more noise out of him and he won't be able to take it a moment longer, and he'll slam him back on the bed and fuck him like he's wanted to fuck him for god knows how long. Still, even drugged with lust he's strangely patient, exploring the planes of muscle on the younger man's body, memorizing the scent of his skin cinnamon, wood shavings, glue, soap. His hair smells wonderfully clean as he nuzzles his neck, trailing butterfly kisses down onto muscular shoulder. Toki strokes a high cheekbone, almost shocked at the warmth of the Swede's skin, he's always expected him to be chilly as the white marble his skin resembled, but it isn't, soft and warm, and alive with a faint flush of pink.

"Yous beautifuls," Toki murmurs, gently running his fingers through the other man's hair. . The Swede looks up at him, surprised, processing for a moment before kissing him again, a long fingered hand undoing the other man's jeans.

"Nos, yous beautifuls," he responds, a hand tracing the contours of the guitarist's lean form. He was like an angel, he swore to god, those light blue eyes, puipils dialated with desire, and his lips parted. He brings out so many instincts in the Swede he barely knows what to do, he wants to protect him, and he wants to devour him, he wants to make love to him and he wants to fuck him senseless. He wants to do everything with him, but most of all he wants to make it incredible for his newly acquired lover.

The Norwegian's pants are off in a few moments, and the Swede's follow. They're naked together, hips grinding desperately together, as they clutch one another in exquisite need. This is passion, this is love, no matter how fucked up the beginning, this is love. Hands on silken flesh, lips seem designed to fit together. It's like finding the missing piece of his heart, like the end of a pain he'd forgotten he was in, like catching a glimpse of the divine. They need each other so badly now, both whimpering, bucking closer trying to get more, both desperate for more contact.

"I's wants yous, Skwisgaar," moans Toki, gripping wavy blonde silk, "fuckings its, I's needings you."

Skwisgaar moans, startled to hear just the words he'd been aching for, jumping for the lube in the pocket of his abandon jeans.

"Yous sure abouts it?" he says, voice soft, reverent almost. He looks nervous, almost as if he's afraid the brunette will have doubts. He couldn't bear it if he had doubts.

"Is sures, Skwisgaar, nevers beens more sures," he insists, pulling him down for another kiss. The Swede swears to god he's going to fucking cry he's so happy, he lubes up his fingers, sliding one ever so gently into Toki. He's sweet, tender, dropping kisses over the younger man's jaw, working the digit gently, giving him plenty of time to adjust before slipping in another, hunting for his spot.

It doesn't take him long, and when he finds it... god, when he finds it, the other man bucks, and moans, and cries out, "Skwisgaar,"

Hearing his name, his name, from Toki. He thanks whoever might be listening for this moment, for Toki, for it all. He adds another finger, and he thinks he finally gets it, gets why people fall in love. Love can hurt you, love can make you really goddamn stupid, love can fuck you up in a million fucking ways, hell it's killed more than a few people, but right now, with Toki in his arms, nothing else matters. Here, for maybe just a moment, everything is right, everything is just... perfect. He takes out his fingers, and slick up his cock, spreading his legs and looking at Toki with a question in those big blue eyes, and Toki nods, and he pushes in, and he swears to Gibson this is the best thing he's ever felt. Pleasure burns through him, and he's moaning. Toki wraps his arms around the blonde's neck, silky hair pooling on the pillow, mouth open as he gasps in pleasure.

"Don'ts stops," moans the rhythm guitarist, "please, Skwisgaar, Is needs you."

"Is ams needings yous too, Toki," says the Swede, brushing hair from the Norwegian's face, taking a deep breath before he starts to move, slow and deliberate. "Tells me ifs I's hurts yous, okays?"

"Pfft, nots likes Is a virgin," says Toki smiling playfully and pulling him into another kiss. The Swede gives it a moment before starting to move in earnest. Toki groans, the hot velvety perfection of the Swede's cock in him is almost too much pleasure to handle. Toki puts a hand on his cheek, heart beating in his chest, as the Swede's hips move, rhythm perfect like something he's wanted all along.

They only have eyes for each other, tangled in the quilt, tangled together, bodies moving in perfect synchrony, speaking without speaking, bodies joined. Backs arch, and cries ring out. The Swede wraps a long fingered hand around the other man's cock. They're moving faster, out of control, but who the fuck needs control anyway?

The blonde's moving faster, fucking Toki the way he knows they both need it now, gasping, moaning. They're losing themselves in each other, drunk on each other's lips. The brunette can't tear his eyes from the blonde, those sharp beautifully aquiline features twisted with utter perfect ecstasy. They're both, gasping, needy, skin gleaming and flushed. This is beauty, this is love, this is what they've always needed.

Toki wraps his legs around Skwisgaar's waist, and the Swede takes it as an invitation, fucking him harder, wanting to push him over the edge, screaming, wanting to give Toki the best he's ever had, because this is the best Skwisgaar's ever had, and because he's just that fucking in love with the other man. He didn't think he was even capable of being in love, let alone being as much in love as he is now.

He shifts the angle of his hips, slamming into the other man's spot with every single thrust, hand matching the mad rhythm of his body. The brunette screams, arching his back.

"Ohs fucks, Skwisgaars rights dere," he cries before falling into Norwegian, pleading in his native tongue. It's too hot, too perfect. Skwisgaar knows he can't last with that gorgeous body under him, writhing, and the other man practically sobbing his name between bursts of Norwegian, so he redoubles his efforts desperate to get Toki off.

They rock against each other, wrapped up in each other, bodies moving to the primal rhythm of lust, earthy and ethereal in each other's arms. Heat's rising, and the room's spinning. It's like the best guitar solo you can imagine, it's metal and it's love, and it's god too perfect.

It's like brutal angels singing, it's like the world falling entirely into place, everything's going to explode. It's like the moment before a glorious cataclysm. Nails dig into white flesh, and Toki bites his lower lip, whimpering piteously as he tries to hold back his orgasm, wanting it to last. Skwisgaar cries out like an animal,

"Skwisgaar, Is gonna... ohs fucks Skwisgaar, Is goings tos..." whimpers Toki, clutching tat the other man as if afraid he'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight.

"Ja, mes too," whines the blonde, every muscle in his magnificently lean body tensed, everything but Toki falling out of his consciousness, and the guitar solo's peaking, and it's they're almost there, white hot, ready to explode. They're quivering with pleasure, moving without conscious thought, just going, harder, faster, more, and more until then it comes, everything explodes, bliss consumes the world and they're the only one's left wrapped around each other, trembling with the after shock. They'd forgotten to breathe and they fight to catch their breath, bodies still entwined, sweat slicked skin against swear slicked skin.

Skwisgaar kisses him softly, murmuring "Tokis, yous ams justs... ja... fucks dats was likes words for goods, buts likes ways betters... likes somes words fors de goods deys nots comings ups withs yets."

"Ja, dats was... wowee," says Toki, looking utterly dazedly content.

"Is loves yous, Toki."

"Is loves yous too, Skwisgaar."


End file.
